


(look at) where we are

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, S3 spoilers, Some hurt/comfort, sick!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d’Artagnan’s been busy ever since he and the others returned to Paris; the incredible implications of the last four years and the home he has returned to have barely sunk in. </p>
<p>...then he falls sick. </p>
<p>This is Constagnan-heavy, but the other Three do feature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(look at) where we are

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Non-specific s3 spoilers. Can be set early s3. Non-explicit allusions to sexual acts.

**(look at) where we are**

-

It’s been four months since d’Artagnan’s returned to Paris; it is not nearly enough time to erase habits carved into both him and Constance by the last four years, but they are determined to make a start. They both wake in the moments just before daybreak—in that space between two breaths—and he would lie in her arms, pliant as she kisses him, soothing old scars and marking him anew. There is something violent and insistent about the kisses now: the scrape of teeth against tongue, the relentless pressure of her body against his, the noisy gasps for breath in between, as though their time together now is even more ephemeral than it had been four years ago, when they had history and the universe and themselves as their biggest enemies. d’Artagnan wants to say _stop_ sometimes, when he can find the breath, but it is always Constance who pulls away first. It is at once better and worse than what he’d imagined—not quite the softness and surrender he’d remembered when he’d pleasured himself, not quite the rejection and resentment that had chased him into sleep and bloomed as nightmares.

d’Artagnan isn’t quite sure what it is, but it is slowly starting to become the rest of his life.

Besides, he has left one battlefield and come home to another—and in this one it is his wife who is the veteran. She is at once the beating heart of the garrison and its dispassionate accountant; the hardy wife of a soldier and a woman who counsels queens. They hardly see each other, but ironically, four years of waiting has only engendered patience, and a strange sort of restraint; once, the whole world was their stage, but now, their passion is an intensely private thing and all the more precious for it.

( _we’ve been married four years now, d’artagnan_ , constance had said, amused, when d’artagnan had told her this. _we are no longer that young and reckless_.

we were never given that chance, d’artagnan had wanted to say, but instead he’d said: _charles. please—please call me charles_. constance had blinked.)

Then one daybreak among a hundred others, d’Artagnan wakes up to an empty bed, and he coughs.

-

The cough stays with him as he gets ready for the morning’s duties, a niggling thing tickling the back of his throat if he so much as draws breath too quickly. He struggles through breakfast, forcing hard bread and cheese down although it hurts his sore throat. Constance stops briefly as she passes by the mess table to stand behind him, one hand touching his forehead then sliding down to his neck. He leans into her touch, closing his eyes.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he mutters, almost absently. It seems like those words have always been at his lips these past few months, its utterance as simple and automatic as taking a breath: _i’ve missed you i’ve missed you i’ve missed you so much_ —but at least he knows to save it for when he is alone with Constance, and when he is sure she wants to hear it. He really must be sick.

Constance clicks her tongue. “You’re warm.”

“I’ll be all right,” he says.

“Oh, you will be.” She looks up. “Athos, he needs to go easy today. And you,” she smacks his shoulder lightly, “get some rest when you can.”

Athos salutes her with his glass. d’Artagnan waits until she’s out of sight before he pushes his food aside and drops his head into his arms with a heartfelt groan.

He’s put in charge of the recruits’ sword training for the morning. When he’s coughing more than barking instructions, and after a few pointed glares from Constance whenever she bustles past the training yard, he excuses himself and retires to their rooms just above the garrison kitchens. He burrows into blessedly cool sheets, imagines for a moment that he can feel Constance run her fingers through his hair (he can still only recall the smell of flour and lavender from all the months and months he spent conjuring this very feeling when at war, even though she smells more frequently now of meat and gunpowder), and drops off to sleep.

When d’Artagnan wakes up, his head is pounding and the sheets are damp beneath his sticky skin. The evening sun is slanting through the curtains, and the room is filled with the overpowering smell of cooking meat and… something else. After a few moments of debate, he rolls onto his back to see Aramis at the far table, steeping herbs in boiled water. There’s a low, lilting hum in the air, and Aramis’ lips are moving.

It takes a moment for d’Artagnan to realise that Aramis is not praying, but _singing_. It’s a pleasant-enough tune, although d’Artagnan cannot make out the words. He clears his throat, croaks out, “Hey.”

Aramis spins around with a wide smile. “That’s quite a fever you’re running, young d’Artagnan,” he says, pouring his herbal concoction into a cup and offering it to him, “but as long as we stop the cold from reaching your lungs, you should be fine.”

d’Artagnan eases himself into a sitting position and takes a sip of the strong-tasting tea while Aramis settles into a bedside chair. It burns his tongue but soothes his throat enough that he feels he can attempt speech. “You were singing,” he says.

“Oh, yes.” Aramis makes a dismissive gesture, although he’s smiling wider than ever. “It’s just something I used to sing to the children to help them sleep. Until the song became a game.”

“A game?”

Aramis’ eyes twinkle. “ _Here comes Porthos_ ,” he sings softly. “ _Strong as ten men!_ / _the devil doesn’t give him pause_ / _even in its own den_.”

d’Artagnan chokes on his tea.

“Then the children pick up from there. You get the idea. I’m sure that at one point Luc was singing about Porthos ending all wars and essentially ascending the throne. A bit blasphemous and a _tad_ treasonous, but—” Aramis shrugs. “The children enjoyed it.”

“It wouldn’t be you without a touch of blasphemy and treason, Aramis,” d’Artagnan tells him seriously.

Aramis stares at him for a moment before laughing. “I suppose I deserved that. A little.”

“Has Porthos heard these songs?”

Aramis’ smile fades a little. “One day, perhaps.”

d’Artagnan hands the empty cup over and lies back against the pillows. His throat feels better but his head is still pounding and he feels so _tired_ —

“It should also help you sleep more restfully,” Aramis says, making to get up. Without thinking, d’Artagnan reaches out, clutches Aramis’ wrist. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says. “Aramis, I’m so glad—”

Aramis eases his hand out of d’Artagnan’s grip and bends down to kiss his temple. “Rest, d’Artagnan,” he says. “You need it.”

His eyes close obediently, and he is asleep before Aramis leaves the room.

-

The second time he wakes, it is to soft candlelight and the sight of his wife next to him, reading. The pain seems to have receded for the moment, and so he sits up, resting against the wall behind him. Constance shifts closer to him without taking her eyes off her book, and d’Artagnan follows suit, laying his head on her shoulder. Her arm snakes around his back, her fingers brushing through his hair, and his eyes drift closed in this perfect sanctuary of her smell, her touch, her presence.

“What are you reading?” he murmurs.

“Something that Fleur gifted me, once,” Constance says. “It’s the story of a valiant knight who saves his lady love from the clutches of an evil man.”

He smiles. “That’s a lot of strong epithets.”

“It’s a pretty straightforward story.” She snaps the book closed. “’Course, I don’t suppose there are very many stories about that poor girl managing a million things at once back at home while the knight goes gallivanting once again. Or learn how to feed herself and the brood of children, especially when the knight goes and gets himself killed. The funeral costs alone—”

d’Artagnan raises his head. “Constance—”

“It’s just a fairytale,” she says, running a hand over the cover. “I don’t even know why I read it again and again, except that it reminds me of Fleur.” She smiles. “A guilty pleasure, she called it. I don’t think Ninon ever approved of reading things like this.”

d’Artagnan gently runs his fingers along her arm and wishes, just for a fleeting second, that she would look at him. “Have you seen Fleur these past years?”

The smile goes crooked at the edges, and d’Artagnan wishes he could take his words back. “I haven’t seen her since Bonacieux’s funeral,” she says. “And I haven’t heard from _my_ family since… well, long before that. I’ve, uh.” She plucks nervously at the edges of her book. “I’ve… written to them, sometimes. Especially after our wedding. I haven’t received any reply, and I don’t even know why I expected them to say anything. Stupid of me.”

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan whispers.

“It is what it is,” she says, over-bright. “Nothing to be done for it, now.”

_Home_ is such a difficult thing to describe; if it is where one’s heart is, then it must be in pieces, for it is impossible to love only person at a time. A part of d’Artagnan’s heart lies buried with his parents, a part razed to the ground along with his childhood home, a part beats for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; for all the fellow soldiers and cadets that he’d learned to love and then send to their deaths during the war. He avoids thinking of Lupiac when he can; the guilt still festers in him like a piece of shrapnel. And if it pains him to face a past that is already and therefore can’t judge him, what must it be like for Constance to face a past that has already rejected her? A part of her heart lies with a home she probably has not seen since before Alexandre d’Artagnan died, and he has demanded her to abandon even the hope of ever seeing them again.

d’Artagnan brings her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers, one-by-one, reverently. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m so—Constance. We are a family. You and me, our children, we _will_ be a family. I promise you that. Constance, I promise you—”

She takes her hand out of his and makes to get out of bed. “I have to see to the books,” she says, “Lord knows I’ve been putting them off long enough.” She leans in, gently wipes the tears he hadn’t realised he had been shedding. “You’re not well, love. You need to rest; we will talk later.” Her hand lingers on his cheek. “I love you,” she says, then turns to leave.

d’Artagnan struggles to sit up further, tries to keep contact longer, but it is too late; his _I love you too_ hangs alone in the wake of her departure.

-

Despite Aramis’ herbs, d’Artagnan’s fever hits a peak the next day. He slips in and out of wakefulness, and through it all, just feels profoundly _uncomfortable_ : he is either so cold that he is shivering under a mountain of blankets, or so hot and itchy that he can barely stand any contact on his skin. Figures come and go: mostly it is either Constance or Aramis trying to bathe his forehead with cool cloths or trying to force medicine down his throat while he thrashes and complains.

Around dusk, he can no longer muster the energy to thrash or manipulate his blankets or even to shiver; he lies limply on his stomach, staring at the wall, feeling as though his very blood is boiling under his skin. More figures come and go, flickering in and out of the ether: his father, his mother, Gaudet, LaBarge, Saracen, Rochefort, a hundred and more unnamed hapless soldiers, Spanish and French, all maimed and killed ruthlessly by him. It is when Bonacieux appears and says, _I curse you—I curse you both! You will never be happy together!_ with blood pouring in torrents out of the hole in his chest, staining his clothes, puddling on the floor, soaking the bedsheets, creeping towards d’Artagnan—that d’Artagnan finally finds the energy to scream. His voice is thin and cracked and he feels something tear at the back of his throat.

The door bursts open and Porthos and Constance rush inside, both of them reaching for him, touching him, holding him, begging him to calm down. Bonacieux continues to bleed, and d’Artagnan continues to scream.

-

“You can never do anything in half-measures, can you,” Porthos tells him when it’s his turn by d’Artagnan’s sickbed. He’s smiling.

d’Artagnan looks up from the cup of thin chicken broth he’s supposed to be forcing down. “That is not a virtue when it comes to stupidity and ruination—and I’ve been guilty of both.”

Porthos’ smile fades, and he cuffs d’Artagnan gently on the shoulder. “What’re you talking like that for? You’re back from the war in one piece, a hero, you’re with your wife, and you’re already scaring the cadets half-to-death with your training. Don’t sell yourself short, d’Artagnan. What you’ve achieved ain’t nothing.”

“I have been ignorant,” d’Artagnan says, “so ignorant, Porthos, so arrogant, so sure of my honour and righteousness—”

“An’ what’s wrong with that?” Porthos leans forward. “Listen, normally I’d be drilling this lesson into you with a good wrestling match, but until you’re healthy enough for that, remember this: there’s no man of honour who’s gotten to where he is without making mistakes or being an idiot along the way. But you are not your mistakes, d’Artagnan. You are so much more than that.”

d’Artagnan stares at him; at the multiple fading abrasions and scars on his face. He remembers the times on the front when supplies were thin and the whole world was exploding around them, when he and Porthos fed each other hope instead of rations and making incredible, reckless, terrible plans when it seemed like every other option was lost. Remembers hard-earned trust and _knowing_ , instead of talking.

“I’m not sure about where I’m standing,” d’Artagnan whispers, shamefully. “Sometimes… sometimes I think it was better on the battlefield. Easier, somehow. And so the nightmares… aren’t always nightmares. What does that make me, Porthos?”

Porthos has nothing to say to that. Instead, he gathers d’Artagnan in his arms and presses him to his chest. d’Artagnan closes his eyes, and they stay like that for a long time.

-

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing that somewhere a little cleaner? Like the kitchen?” Athos asks.

d’Artagnan brings his knife down and cleaves the onion in two with a flourish. “If you think the mess table in the practice yard is dirtier than the kitchen, Captain, I’m sorry to inform you that it is decidedly _not_.”

Athos raises an eyebrow at him.

“All right,” d’Artagnan relents. “I was banished from the kitchen because Constance says it makes her nervous when I watch her cook, and I thought, well, I could oversee a bit of training while I cut these things.”

“… things.”

“They’re edible,” d’Artagnan offers, holding up a shrivelled-looking cauliflower.

“I don’t doubt it,” Athos says, sitting opposite to him.

“Well, it’s either this stew or black bread for the next two days.” d’Artagnan shrugs.

Athos hums and leans back. “The cadets expressed concern over your illness and sent their best wishes. But I believe they were also,” his lips quirk in a smile, “ _relieved_.”

d’Artagnan snorts. “I work them no harder than you did to me when I was a recruit.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Athos says. “You pushed yourself harder than any of us did. You always had something to prove.” He leans forward. “Give these boys a reason to fight, d’Artagnan. Or lead them to one.”

And what is he trying to prove now? Fire is born from conviction, and it has been a long time since d’Artagnan has felt completely sure of what he is doing. But perhaps it is time he transfers that faltering faith away from him and his beliefs and to the people he loves, the people he is fighting for—his family, his fellow brothers. They are more than reason enough. He nods at Athos.

The captain smiles. “Are you well, d’Artagnan?” he asks.

“No,” d’Artagnan says. “But I will be.”

-

d’Artagnan’s lying back on the bed, naked from the waist up; Constance is mouthing kisses along his neck before she finally reaches his lips, while securing his wrists above his head with one hand. He squirms underneath her, trying to follow her lips as she moves away, but she is relentless and he is only barely recovered and still weak.

“Constance,” he gasps, “Const—” but she’s kissing him again, hard, desperate, but when he tugs at her clothes, she pulls away again, completely this time.

“I have work to do,” Constance says breathlessly, “I didn’t—”

“Constance,” d’Artagnan says, sitting up, because he finally understands, “do you not want to do this… today? This week, altogether?”

She does not say anything, only stares at him like the words are strangled in her throat.

“Do you not want to get pregnant?” d’Artagnan asks quietly.

There’s silence for a few more moments, before Constance shakes her head. “I do not… want to bring a babe into this world now, with all this… fear and chaos and bloodshed. When its father can leave home one morning and likely never come back. Not into this world, d’Artagnan. Not into this life. Not… now.”

d’Artagnan swallows. “All right,” he says. “All right.”

“d’Artagnan?”

“We are still a family, you know,” d’Artagnan says, pulling her into his arms, kissing her forehead. “Everything we’ve built together… everything we will build from hereon, the cadets, the garrison, that’s still ours. Our legacy. Whether we have children or not, that doesn’t change, and I am forever grateful for it.”

Constance gives him a watery smile.

“Besides,” d’Artagnan says, tilting his head towards his discarded belts, “surely there are other ways we can enjoy ourselves?”

Constance grins. “You’re a cheeky one. I’ll have you know that I have a few of Porthos’ unwashed head-scarves with me now, so you best not be mouthing off.”

“As you wish, Madame,” d’Artagnan says, and leans in to kiss her.

**_Finis_ **


End file.
